


Thirteen

by vesuviannights



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Dominant Reader, F/M, Female or AFAB reader, Orgasm Counting, Overstimulation, Submissive Lucio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 08:49:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20871485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesuviannights/pseuds/vesuviannights
Summary: You sit astride Lucio’s stomach while he is bound and blindfolded beneath you, caught between begging you to stop torturing his cock with orgasm after orgasm, and giving you all the power in the world to completely destroy him.





	Thirteen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for some anon requests on my Tumblr (@vesuviannights).

“P-please, _please_, I can’t do it—I can’t come anymore, please _s-stop_.”

You sit astride his stomach, the Count of Vesuvia shuddering and gasping beneath you as yet another orgasm rocks through him. From your position just above his cock, you can spy two leather cuffs, one for each of his ankles. There is a matching set around his wrists behind you, and a cloth secured tightly around his eyes, removing almost all control from the normally collected and commanding Count.

You tut quietly under your breath, watching as the flat of your palm runs down the underside of his cock, your other hand supporting it from the other side. He gives a pathetic little whine, one that sends a shiver of delight through your body. It won’t be long before you manage to pull another orgasm from him. 

“Is ‘stop’ your safe word?” You ask him, your voice quiet, a slow and patient lilt there, as though you were speaking to a toddler.

His words having abandoned him once more, he merely whimpers in response, his swollen and red cock twitching between your palms. 

And then he is coming _again_, barely thirty seconds after his previous. You remove your hands, and even though nothing is coming out—he is dry, spent, walking that sharp edge between overstimulating pleasure and pain—he is thrusting pathetically into the air before you, trying to gain more stimulation from literally anything he can while also being so weary of your touch and the torture it brings.

“Mmmm,” you hum your approval, sigh it out, as he settles back down once more. Your hands resume their movements, stroking and rubbing him between your palms. “I didn’t think so, baby boy. See? You’re _enjoying_ this.”

Sensing he needs at least a moment of reprieve, you keep one palm against his cock for support and reduce your other to the touch of a single finger, swirling it around his head, tracing the tip of your sharp nail up the bulging vein of his underside and the double piercing nestled there.

_Gods_, how you wish you could see his face in this moment, watch the way his jaw would be tightening, the way his eyes would be frantic little pinpricks, opening and closing and darting around behind his blindfold as he struggles to decide between begging you to stop and pleading with you for more.

With a glint to your eye and a tilt to your lips, you shift your stance, lifting your hips up and back. He takes the bait with a tiny, hopeful little gasp, and just as you feel his head shift and his hot breath graze against the aching heat of your pussy, you pull your hips away.

He growls, curses at you, and a moment later you hear him throw his head back down into his pillow with a huff.

And then he is coming again, the muscles of his stomach contracting and hardening beneath you as he lets out a high-pitched whine and a dry sob. You grind your pussy along his abdominals, humming pleasantly at the slow and aching relief that it offers you.

“How many is that, puppy?”

He groans and nothing more, and of course you can’t have _that_. So you stop touching him, removing both hands from his cock and your pussy from his stomach, leaving him with nothing but the feel of your calves squeezing his sides.

Immediately he is thrusting wildly upward in his efforts to find you again, desperate in his blindness, at not knowing where you have gone and seemingly not even comprehending why you had left him.

“I—I—” He barely gabbles the word out as he thrusts, his thighs quivering, his cock twitching.

“How. Many.”

“Twelve!” He rasps out.

“Oh, good boy!”

“Th-thank yo-_ohhhhhh_ stop _stop stop_—”

He comes again, hisses at you through his teeth. He is thrusting into your touch, not giving even a drop, and even though he’s fucking your hand and whining and showing every sign that he loves every moment of his exquisite torture, you know that you are reaching the end of your session.

“Thirteen!” He gasps out, this time without any prompting. 

So of course you croon to him, and tell him how good of a boy he is. Then you remove your hands from his cock for good and smooth your palms gently down the insides of his thighs, your silent signal that you are done for the evening. 

He whines, almost sounding like he is going to beg to keep going, but a moment later you feel him relax beneath you and release a breath that he didn’t even seem to know he was holding.

“Thirteen, baby boy,” you praise, lightly raking your nails up and down the inside of his thigh. His muscles contract and shiver against you. “You did so well.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like your reward?”

“Yes please.”

You bring your palms down on each of this thighs, a sharp smack that causes him to howl and bow up against you, a hiss erupting from low in his throat at the sting.

“_Gods_, you’re so mean!”

“We can stop _aaaaaanytime_ you want, baby boy. All you have to do is say—”

“Oh no no no no,” he chuckles, only a fraction of a shake to it to show his floundering control. “I could do this for hours.”

You smirk, finally turning around to face him and pull the blindfold from his eyes. His face is flushed, and there are streaks of mascara from his tears of frustration, all alongside the trademark smirk that appears on his face as he devours the sight of you above him, his wondrously evil goddess, his devious little minx, his cruel and glorious mistress.

With a smirk of your own, and a quiet tut under your breath about the state of him, you shift up his body, ripping his head back by his hair so that he is looking up at you as you settle your pussy right above his mouth.

“You’re going to wish you had never said that, puppy.”


End file.
